


No Sacrifice

by standbygo



Series: Retrograde [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Sherlock/John - Relationship - Freeform, Surprise Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s no sacrifice<br/>Just a simple word<br/>Two hearts living<br/>In two separate worlds</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [这不是奉献](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2338463) by [RictinaM_Z](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RictinaM_Z/pseuds/RictinaM_Z)



**Part I**

This case, thought Sherlock as he sprinted through the back alleys of London, is not going well.

Tracking down Jeter and his crew had not been the problem. That aspect of the case had been absurdly easy. He had not, however, anticipated the gang waiting for him, prepared with blunt weapons, in the warehouse he had tracked them to. He had managed take out most of the gang by rolling barrels from the balcony onto the heads of the men below, and slowed down most of the rest by knocking over wooden skids behind him as he ran out of the building. A good running speed through the darkened labyrinthine backstreets would get rid of the rest, enough time to get to a safe enough place to text Lestrade with their locations for arrest.

He could hear only one set of feet running behind him now, the humid August air muffling the sound, and he darted sharply to his right onto a side road. He smiled and put on a last burst of speed to leave them behind. 

He had not anticipated the motorcycle. 

The sound startled Sherlock, roaring up nearly beside him in only a few seconds. He immediately doubled back to avoid the cyclist and ran into another alley before the running man could catch up with him. A second too late, he realized he had made a terrible error and run into an alley with no exit.

He stopped short, looking frantically about for a stairway, fire escape, ledge, anything to offer some means of escape, and could see none.

No, he thought, not going well at all. 

The motorcyclist pulled up at the entrance to the alley, blocking his exit, and casually stepped off the vehicle, removing his helmet slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. He turned the front wheel of the cycle, with the headlight on, towards Sherlock, dazzling him. The running man pulled up beside the bike, breathing heavily but with a terrible smile on his face. 

“Now, Mr. Holmes,” said the motorcyclist, “time for a talk.”

“As you wish,” Sherlock replied, shielding his eyes, trying not to squint, wondering how long he could stall.

“You’re a busybody, Mr. Holmes,” said the motorcyclist. “Can’t leave well enough alone. Could have been very easy, Mr. Holmes – you handle your business, we handle ours, and everyone’s happy. But no.” The man’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Had to stick your nose in.” He nodded without looking at the big man beside him, who slowly began to advance on Sherlock. 

Sherlock quickly appraised the man moving towards him. He was easily three inches taller than himself and several inches wider across the shoulders, and weighed at least fifty extra pounds which he had to assume was mostly muscle. He was considering hand to hand combat strategies with a man of this build when he noticed the shine of a steel blade in the man’s right hand. That changes things yet again, he thought.

“Shouldn’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, Mr. Holmes,” drawled the other man. “Anything you stick in, you lose.” 

The big man with the knife laughed without humour and began to sing softly. “You puts your right hand in, you take your right hand out, you puts your right hand in and I shake it all about…”

Big men tend to move slowly, Sherlock thought. Get past the big moron and then handle the little moron. He feinted right and dodged to the left. 

There are exceptions to every rule, he remembered a moment later when he found himself with a large tattooed arm around his neck and the knife to his face. 

The motorcyclist was laughing quietly and leaning against his bike. “Now, Mr. Holmes, what was I saying before I was so rudely interrupted? Ah yes. Mr. Jeter prefers a quiet life, Mr. Holmes, and you’re making his life quite complicated, you see?”

“Perhaps he should have thought of that before he murdered those police officers,” Sherlock said with difficulty. The big arm tightened across his throat a little more, and Sherlock started to feel his breath being cut off.

“They were like you, Mr. Holmes – nosey. Not to worry, you’ll be joining your friends in the Thames shortly. Now, Timothy, your choice. Where would you like to start with Mr. Holmes?”

“I like the nose,” replied the big man.

Sherlock felt the blade press against the bottom of his nose, and simultaneously began to see stars pass across his field of vision. 

Suddenly he heard a third voice, as if from very far away: “Oi! Mad Max!”

The motorcyclist turned towards the sound at the entrance of the alleyway. Instantly Sherlock saw stars surround the cyclist’s head like a nimbus, catching the light of the motorcycle headlight. Belatedly he realized that they weren’t stars, but shards of glass. The cyclist dropped like a stone. 

Sherlock realized he could breathe again; the big man had loosened his grip around his neck in surprise. Feeling the rush of oxygen again, he struggled briefly against the thug but could not break free. Instead he gained a small advantage by worming one of his hands between the arm and his throat, giving him (literally, he thought ruefully) some breathing space.

The big man switched his grip on the knife and held its tip against Sherlock’s temple. “Walk away, mister, not your business here.”

Sherlock saw someone walking towards them, but couldn’t see his features through the motorcycle headlight. The man had his hands out in front of him in a conciliatory gesture. “Sorry, mate, can’t do that.”

Hampshire accent, Sherlock thought instinctively.

“Look, a bloke’s out with his mates for a pint or two, heading home and sees a man about to be roughed up in an alleyway by someone twice his size? Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

“Walk away, little man,” snarled Timothy. Sherlock saw he was right, the man approaching was at least five inches shorter than himself and quite tiny compared to the thug. He had to admire the man’s audacity, but was worried that he would do something stupid and get them both killed.

The short man was now only a couple of feet away, palms held out towards them. “And I must admit that when I’ve a few pints in me, I get a hankering for some roughhousing.” He closed his hands into fists without changing the position of his arms. “Come on, then.”

Was this man crazy? Sherlock thought. He felt the knifepoint dimpling his forehead.

“Jesus,” said the big man. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

The little man cocked his head to the side. “You know what? Me neither.”

Suddenly his left foot lashed out and slammed into the big man’s knee with a force unexpected in such a compact body. The big man howled and buckled, his hand holding the knife swiping blindly. Sherlock reached around and knocked the knife out of his hand and to the ground, then smashed his elbow into his attacker’s neck. He heard the thump of the body hitting the pavement.

The smaller man poked the unresponsive thug with the toe of his trainer. “Well, not dead, but he won’t be happy tomorrow.” He looked up at Sherlock. “That was fun. You all right?”

“Perfectly all right,” Sherlock replied, or tried to. A wave of dizziness swept over him and he bent over, leaning his hands on his knees. 

“Hang on now, I saw he had a good grip on your neck, so your brain’s a little oxygen-deprived. Breathe deeply and keep your head low.” The man hooked one arm under Sherlock’s shoulder to support him. Sherlock, resenting the offer of help, straightened up immediately. “I must thank you, Mr...?”

“Watson, John Watson.” He extended his hand and Sherlock shook it. 

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“ _Sherlock_? Seriously?” Sherlock glared at him until the smile faded. “Sorry.”

Fortunately Sherlock had a lifetime of people responding like that to his name and let it go. The man had saved his life, after all, or at least from great injury. 

John still looked sheepish for laughing. “I’d better call 999.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “They won’t know what to do with this lot. I know someone on the force, I’ll text him.” He reached for his mobile.

“TEXT him? You’re going to text the police about a couple of muggers? You serious?”

“Not muggers. They’re wanted for smuggling heroin and killing four police officers.”

“Jesus.” 

Sherlock was thumbing at this phone. “Damn. My phone’s dead.”

“Here, you can use mine.” 

Sherlock looked up too quickly and felt another wave of dizziness. “Head down, head down,” John repeated. “Tell me the number.”

Sherlock gave Lestrade’s number from memory. “Type this – ‘Jeter’s men, alleyway off Stonecutter’s Lane. Others at Warehouse 93 at Shadwell Basin.’”

“You are utterly serious, aren’t you?” John said, then began typing when he saw the look on Sherlock’s face. “Aren’t you a piece of work. Warehouse… 93? 93, Shadwell Basin.” He pressed Send. “There, done.”

Sherlock straightened again and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Very warm this evening. “What did you do to the cyclist? I couldn’t see properly with the light.”

“Oh. I threw an empty wine bottle I found in a bin. I’ve been playing darts all night, just used the same kind of throw.” He mimed throwing something. “Got him right on the nose. Should be able to score all 20s from now on.”

Sherlock, not understanding what John was talking about, wiped his brow again, he seemed to be awfully wet. “Well done, thank you.” He looked at his hand and saw it was covered in blood. “Oh,” he said.

“That’s not right, what the hell?” John reached up and examined Sherlock’s face, then his hand. “Oh shit, there, he must have cut your arm as he went down.”

Sherlock now noticed that his jacket and shirtsleeve were sliced neatly down his left forearm, and blood was welling from the cut. The blood had run down his arms and into his hand while he was leaning over.

“We must get you to a hospital, that’s going to need stitches.”

“No, no hospital,” Sherlock said. “I’ve a first aid kit at my rooms.”

“A sticking plaster won’t do the trick, here, Sherlock.” John grinned at him. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

John pulled his striped jumper off and pressed it hard against Sherlock’s arm. “Not ideal, but it’ll do for now. Keep your arm up as high as you can,” he said. “How long until your police friend gets here?”

“Not my friend,” Sherlock snapped, gritting his teeth and fighting another wave of vertigo. “We can leave them, they’ll be out until Lestrade gets here. My rooms aren’t far.”

They started walking out of the alley, with John supporting Sherlock while applying pressure to the wound. “Will you at least allow me to call a cab, sir?” 

“Ah. Sarcasm.” 

“Yes. Taxi!”


	2. Chapter 2

“When you said your rooms, I assumed you meant more than one. Room, that is,” John said. He looked around the tiny room in the boarding house, nearly ankle deep in papers, books, scientific equipment, crockery, and the other miscellaneous debris of Sherlock’s life. The bed was barely visible above the mess.

“Well, the bath is in a separate room,” Sherlock said.

“Where’s that?”

"Upstairs,” Sherlock admitted.

“Doesn’t really count then, does it?”

“Fine. My _room_. May I sit down?”

John looked around again. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Shut up.”

“That’s nice, just saved your life and you’re telling me to shut up. Where’s your famous first aid kit?”

“Top of the cupboard, above the sink.”

John found the box, and opened it while Sherlock cleared some space on the end of the narrow bed and sat down. “Jesus, where did you get this stuff? A civilian says first aid kit to me, I’m thinking gauze, plasters for paper cuts, cotton for an ingrown toenail. Not Steri-strips, syringes, and – Jesus, is that – oh, I don’t want to know.”

“I swiped them from St. Bart’s.”

“Oh, I trained at Bart’s. You work there?”

“No.” Sherlock leaned his head against the wall and decided that would be the end of his answer.

John carried the kit over and turned businesslike as he peeled the jumper away from Sherlock’s arm. “Well, the bleeding’s mostly stopped anyway, and it’s a surprisingly clean cut,” he said, efficiently cleaning the wound and pressing fresh gauze on it. “How are you feeling? Dizzy?”

“Fine, fine, perfectly fine.”

“Uh huh, don’t believe you.” John carefully pulled the edges of the wound together and started to apply the Steri-strips. “Hurt?”

“No.” Sherlock leaned against the wall, head tilted up, eyes closed.

“Codeine might help.”

“No.”

“Suit yourself. You’ll have to keep this dry.”

“Yes.” 

John applied a loose gauze bandage over the closed wound and secured it with adhesive tape. “Right. Don’t do any push-ups for a couple of weeks.” 

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John in confusion. John shook his head slightly while he put the first aid kit away. He turned back to Sherlock and hesitated, crossing his arms. “Look,” he said, shuffling his feet, “I don’t feel right leaving you like this. I still think you should be in hospital – you lost a goodly amount of blood, you’re clearly weak, in shock…”

“Dr. Watson…”

“John, please. I think an incident like this puts us on a first name basis, don’t you?”

“John, then. I do thank you but I really am all right.”

John stared at him for a moment, as if trying to read his mind. “Right.” Another long look. “Right then. Rest. Keep it dry.”

“You said that already,” Sherlock said drowsily, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall again.

“Right.” John moved back towards the door, then turned back one more time. “You’re sure.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, not opening his eyes.

“Ok then.” John opened the door. “Good night, then.”

John was half way down the corridor when he heard Sherlock call his name and came racing back.

“Your jumper,” Sherlock said. He was still sitting up on the bed, holding the striped jumper out in front of him. “I think it’s ruined, I’m sorry.”

John looked at his blood soaked jumper, then back at Sherlock, incredulity creasing his forehead. 

Sherlock peered at the jumper in his hands. “Yes, def’ly ruined,” his usual crisp tones slurring the words. “I do hope your mother won’t be angry your birthday gift was ruined.” And he slid bonelessly along the wall to land sideways on the bed.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke to the sounds of London traffic from his tiny window. He found himself on his bed, fully clothed, lying on his side, his top knee bent and forward, his bottom leg angled back. Normally he slept on his back, hands under his head; why was he in this unnatural, uncomfortable position? He realized suddenly he was in the recovery position, his own body blocking him from rolling onto his front (smothering) or back (aspirating vomit). 

He could hear a soft rumbling sound in the room, a different timbre than the traffic outside. He raised his head and saw John sitting in a kitchen chair, feet propped on the edge of the bed, snoring slightly. 

Sherlock sat up, pushing aside the blanket draped over him. The slight movement of the bed awoke John; he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and blinked rapidly. “Morning,” he said.

“What happened?” Sherlock said.

“You passed out. Not surprising, really, given the shock and blood loss.”

“No, but why are you here?”

John looked quizzically at him. “Couldn’t leave an unconscious man alone like that. Hippocratic oath and all that.”

“Oh.” Sherlock was unsure what to say. “But I told you, you could leave.”

“Well, I ignored you.”

Sherlock looked at John; John looked back at him steadily. Sherlock finally dropped his gaze and said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, where’s a good place for breakfast around here?”

“Breakfast?” Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten breakfast.

“I believe the current rate for life-saving, wound stitching and sleeping in incredibly uncomfortable places, is breakfast. I could murder a bacon sandwich right now.”

*

“You’re seriously just having tea?” John said.

“Can’t handle… fried pig in the mornings.”

“Suit yourself.” 

Sherlock felt a mild wave of nausea as he watched John take a huge bite from his bacon sandwich. 

“You really ought to eat something, though, replenish your blood count.”

“Later, perhaps.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“What day is it?”

“…Thursday.”

“I think Tuesday lunch. I’m good for a bit.”

John put down his sandwich and stared at Sherlock. There was a dab of HP Sauce on the corner of his mouth. “You’re serious,” he said.

“You keep saying that.”

John cocked his head to the side and gave Sherlock a long, appraising look. “I’m beginning to suspect you’re always serious.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“All right, well, doctor’s orders, you’ll eat something for lunch. Beef or liver or something with lots of iron.”

Sherlock’s stomach lurched again but he said, “All right,” to end the discussion. Must change the subject, get control of this situation again, he thought. He wasn’t often not in control of a conversation, and he didn’t like it. “How long are you on leave?”

“What?” John looked up, astonished. 

“You’re on leave, from the army, yes?”

“Yes, but how did you know?”

“You said civilian last night – ‘A civilian says first aid kit to me…’ That means either soldier or police. If you were police you wouldn’t have suggested calling 999, you would have just radioed for help. So, soldier. Also I can see the necklace of your identity tag round the edge of the collar of your t-shirt, it was covered by your jumper at first but I saw it when you took it off to stop the bleeding. Still wearing your tags means on active duty. You knew how to use the Steri-sticks without hesitation – they’re the easiest method of suturing in the field and the most portable. So, active duty, army doctor. The skin on your arms has three tones to it; very dark from your wrists down, then paler from your wrists to your t-shirt sleeve, then quite pale above that. The darker skin on your hands indicates intense sunlight over a long period. The tan mark on your wrist tells me you weren’t holidaying, but wearing a long sleeve shirt – your uniform. The area between your wrists and your bicep is slightly darker because you’ve been wearing a t-shirt recently and getting a bit more sun on that part of your arms, so you’ve been out of uniform and out of intense sun for, say three weeks. London sunshine is no match for the desert sun in – what, Afghanistan or Iraq? If you’d been on leave to, say Cuba or the Caribbean, your forearms would be a closer match to your hands, but they aren’t, so you’ve decided to take your leave in London. When do you return to the front?” 

John was staring at him, open mouthed. 

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock said, passing him a napkin, “wipe that HP Sauce off your mouth.”

John took it and wiped his face automatically. “How… how did you do that?”

“I’ve trained myself to make observations, based on data most people would not recognize or ignore, and piece them together into a cohesive conclusion. I started working with the police two years ago, on the cases they have trouble with. Last night, for example, I was tracking down a gang that had killed four police officers; unfortunately I didn’t think they would… anticipate my arrival. My work has to be under the wire, the top brass at the Met don’t like _civilians_ getting involved in their cases.”

“The police consult you, a private citizen? Do they pay you?”

“Whatever for?” 

John shook his head. “A consulting detective. Never heard the like.”

Hm, Sherlock thought. I like that, consulting detective.

“All right, what about the jumper?” John said.

“Hm?”

“You knew the jumper was from my mother. For my birthday.”

“What? Oh yes. Obvious. No label in the jumper means not store bought but hand made. Lightweight wool means it wasn’t made for winter weather like around Christmas, but for summer evenings. Your birthday’s in the late spring, early summer?”

“June first.” John shook his head again. “That’s quite the party trick.”

“It’s not a trick,” Sherlock snapped. 

“Sorry,” John said.

Sherlock’s mobile pinged. Automatically he reached for it and opened it to read the text. 

> **  
> _DI Lestrade (2)_  
> **
> 
> **_Text message from DI Lestrade, today, 3:01am_ **
> 
> _Picked up your friends from Stonecutter Lane. Straight to ER, guarded. What did you do to them?_
> 
> **_Text message from DI Lestrade, today, 9:20am_ **
> 
> _Jeter’s gang cleared out of warehouse, nothing left. Trail cold. Will you come?_

Sherlock clicked Reply and typed “On my way.  Don’t touch anything. SH.” In one fluid motion he snapped the mobile shut, stood and picked up his coat.

“Hey, hey, look, I said sorry, I’m really impressed, you know?”

“What?” Sherlock looked down at John. He had forgotten he was there. “Oh. No, I have a case, I need to go.” 

“Are you sure you’re all right to go out? You need time to recover, you lost a lot of blood...”

“Perfectly fine, thank you for your concern,” Sherlock said absently, and walked out of the restaurant, his mind already on the case.

John stared at the retreating figure and shrugged. “Didn’t even finish his tea,” he murmured.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Several hours later, Sherlock was flat on his stomach collecting dirt samples from the warehouse floor when his mobile rang. He ignored it – partly because he couldn’t reach it from that angle, and partly because everyone he knew texted him. He stretched out his arm and felt the pull of the sutures and bandages, but gritted his teeth and scooped some dust into a vial. As he wiggled backwards out of the tight corner he was in, he heard the short ping notifying him of a voice message.

> **  
> _1 missed call_  
> **
> 
> **_1 voice mail, today, 7:29pm_ **
> 
> _“Uh, hey, Sherlock, it’s John, John Watson from, ah, last night, and, ah, I just wanted to check in and see how your arm was doing, and… well, just making sure you’re all right. Hope you don’t mind, I got your number off your phone last night. So just… just making sure. Right. Cheers.”_
> 
> **_Text message to JHWatson, today, 7:45pm_ **
> 
> _I’m fine, thank you.  SH._
> 
> **_Text message from JHWatson, today, 7:48pm_ **
> 
> _Did you eat something?_
> 
> **_T_ ** **_ext message to JHWatson, today, 7:55pm_ **
> 
> _Why?  SH._
> 
> **_Text message from JHWatson, today, 7:59pm_ **
> 
> _Because you’re not a machine._
> 
> **_Text message from JHWatson, today, 8:05pm_ **
> 
> _Even machines need petrol sometimes._
> 
> **_Text message from JHWatson, today, 8:14pm_ **
> 
> _Hello?_
> 
> **_Text message from JHWatson, today, 8:20pm_ **
> 
> _You okay?_
> 
> **_Text message to JHWatson, today, 8:23pm_ **
> 
> _Fine. Busy.  SH._
> 
> **_Text message from JHWatson, today, 8:30pm_ **
> 
> _Meet me at Hawksmoor Guildhall, Basinghall St, 9pm. Doctor’s orders._

Sherlock wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or amused. 

*

Sherlock walked into the restaurant forty-five minutes later and saw John sitting at a table, facing the door. When John saw Sherlock he stood and extended his hand. 

“Glad you came, you doing all right?”

“Yes, of course. Look, Dr. Watson…”

“John, I said.”

“ _John_ , fine, look, I don’t want to waste your time, I really am fine.”

“Hey, this isn’t just about you, you know. I’m on leave, I’m bored, and I want to learn more about this… about what you do. And I figured you could use a meal. So please. My treat. Or rather, the treat of the Royal Marines.”

Sherlock’s eyes met John’s. This was not something Sherlock had experienced before. Generally people left him alone when he asked them to, sometimes even without his asking, and that suited him. He imagined his tiny room, the experiments that awaited him, the earth samples he needed to analyze…

“Thank you,” he said finally, and sat.

John signalled to the waiter. “I took the liberty of… well, you must be starving, so I figured you wouldn’t want to wait for your meal. They take a little while to prepare but they’re worth it. Anyway, I ordered ahead for you, hope you don’t mind.”

“Ordered what?”

“Mate, this is Hawksmoor’s, best burgers in London. Never eaten here, I guess?”

“No.”

“Ever even heard of it?”

Suddenly Sherlock felt bashful, another feeling he hadn’t experienced for a long time. “I don’t think… Not sure I’ve had a burger before.”

“ _What_? Jesus, where’d you come from, the moon?”

The waiter arrived at the table and placed the plates in front of them. Sherlock stared in horror at the enormous, dripping burger and huge pile of chips. “Aren’t they supposed to cook it?”

“It’s rare, you idiot, supposed to be that way, not cooked like an old shoe the way our mums did it.”

“My mother didn’t cook.” Sherlock poked at the burger cautiously with one long finger.

John had already picked his up and taken a huge bite. “Come on then. I won’t leave you alone until you do.”

John watched, bemused, while Sherlock tried picking up the burger without getting his hands messed, an impossible task, finally taking a relatively small bite.

“Right, well done, keep going. Red meat will help boost your iron levels which are probably still low. Any word on our friends from last night?”

Sherlock wiped his mouth. “Yes, police took them straight to hospital. The big one had a concussion, plus a broken kneecap. Cyclist concussed as well and multiple stitches around the face and neck, took them ages to get all the glass out, apparently. They’re still unconscious, under an armed guard. When they come round, the police will start questioning them to track down the rest of the gang.”

“That’s good.” John had finished about three quarters of his burger already while Sherlock was managing his third, albeit less tentative, bite.

“Oh, I meant to ask,” said Sherlock, wiping his fingers again. “How did you know his name?”

“Who?”

“The cyclist. You called him Mad Max – is that his street name? How did you know him?”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment then burst into laughter.

“What?”

As John laughed harder, tears rolling down his face, Sherlock found himself smiling despite himself.

*

“Go on, do another one.”

“Which one?”

“Erm… that one, the man in the black shirt.”

“Obvious. Married but not happily, you can see the marks from his ring on his finger but he’s put it in his pocket. In his mid-fifties, judging from the pattern baldness and facial lines. Wearing a black silk shirt, just purchased today, Harrod’s, trying to impress younger women.”

“And not succeeding at all. See, that one just walked away from him.”

“Right. I’d give him about another half hour before his gives up and gets into his … yes, American sports car, I think a Camaro, and heads home to… I’d say Finchley.”

“You’re making it up now.”

“Fine, you go over and ask him to verify, then.”

“Not in your life.”

John’s laughter died down, and he looked down at his beer bottle, picking at the label. “I didn’t answer your question, from this morning.”

Sherlock said nothing, but gazed steadily at John.

“I ship out Monday. My train to the base leaves at 7:32 in the morning, and they’ll fly me and the rest of the unit to Kandahar overnight.”

Another long silence. 

“This is my second tour, I volunteered. After I finished my medical training at Bart’s I couldn’t find a job that wasn’t looking after diabetic little old ladies. I did have one offer, as a resident doctor for a nursing home outside of Glasgow. Couldn’t bear the thought of that. So I joined up, and you know what?” John looked up at Sherlock with fierce pride on his face. “I was good at it. Learned how to shoot, fight, run like stink when the bombs hit, and sewed up the kids who didn’t run fast enough. My troop got shelled a few times, but I got away, scot-free, not a mark on me. So I volunteered for another tour. Besides, I’m not qualified to do anything else.

“The money’s not fantastic but I eat something resembling food that I don’t need to pay for, and got a roof… well, canvas over my head instead of paying rent. Not bad, right?”

John’s smile was more like a flinch, and didn’t reach his eyes. “My leave’s been great crack. Out with my mates, being in London… best city in the world, this. Wouldn’t live anywhere else. Some of the men went to Grenada, Monaco. I didn’t even consider it, had to be London. So. I’ve had lots of booze ups, went looking for a fight a few times,” he nodded at Sherlock, “slept with any girl who would look at me twice. Great time. It’s just…” John sighed, trying to organize his thoughts.

“The last week or so, knowing that my leave was almost over, I’ve been… regretting signing up. For the tour. Thinking, was that just asking for trouble? Tempting fate? Didn’t get hurt at all last tour, could my luck have run out? I mean, Queen and country and all that, but was it foolish to voluntarily put myself in harm’s way again?”

John fell silent. Sherlock felt as though he had been pinned to his chair. Never in his life had anyone confided in him like this. John’s vulnerability made Sherlock himself feel vulnerable, a feeling he didn’t experience often and didn’t like at all. He felt an urge to flee and yet knew he could not, and would not.

“Funny, while I was out there, I wasn’t really thinking about it. I guess, when you’re in the middle of it, you don’t have time to be afraid. The training helps, teaches you how to run when your body wants to freeze. But now that I’m home, and thinking about going back, I can’t stop feeling…” 

John closed his mouth over the last word and looked up at Sherlock. For one brief flash, Sherlock saw stark fear in his face. Just as suddenly it vanished and John shook his head as if waking up. “Jesus, listen to me bring down the room. Don’t mind me, I’m just being a nervous Nelly.  Now, my turn – that one over there, in the plaid shirt. He’s, ah, he’s a spy from Mother Russia, the whole cowboy look is because he’s from Siberia and never seen a movie made since 1975…”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was perched on a stool in the lab at St. Bart’s, gazing intently into the microscope while running an analysis on the computer to his right. His mobile lay on the table to his left, within arms’ length. He had been running tests on the samples of dust from the warehouse for hours, eliminating the more obvious elements and trying to isolate something that would offer a clue to allow him to pick up on the Jeter trail. 

He leaned back from the ocular for a moment and rubbed his eyes. Even though he had eaten only half of the burger before John would allow him to stop, the greasy food still was affecting his ability to think clearly even the next day. He had overslept as well, sleeping six hours instead of his usual three or four, and he still felt muzzy.

This would never do. He pressed his finger into the central fold of cartilage in his ear; the acupressure point worked and Sherlock became alert again instantly. He shifted the sample on the glass plate and looked back into the microscope. 

Suddenly he saw it – a vivid blue thread, no more than two millimetres long. He pulled the plate out, used a set of tweezers to extract the thread from the dust and placed it on a new, clean plate. He refocused the microscope again and studied the thread.

“Hm,” he grunted. Swiftly he turned to the computer and interrupted the pollen analysis. He clicked a few keys and scanned the information. 

“Yes,” he said out loud, and crossed to the storage cabinet, withdrew a vial of a brownish liquid and used a minute eyedropper to withdraw a single drop. He carefully let the bead of liquid fall on the plate and looked down the ocular again. “Yes!”

He grabbed his mobile and opened it, unaware of the childlike smile on his face. 

> **  
> _Text message to DI Lestrade, today, 5:08pm_  
> **
> 
> Jeter HQ in Jiangsu province, China. Call Interpol, check warehouses in Suzhou or Nanjing. SH.

He leaned back and sighed. “Silk,” he murmured. He clicked at the computer again, opened a few more windows and read them quickly. 

“More likely Nanjing,” he said, and was reaching for his mobile again when it pinged.

>   
> **  
> _Text message from DI Lestrade, today, 5:11pm_  
> **
> 
> _Sorry haven’t been able to text earlier. Your man with the glass concussion confessed this aft and gave us address in Nanjing. Chinese gov cooperated, all arrested an hour ago. Thx Sherlock._

Sherlock felt a wave of anger flow over him. All that work, some brilliant deduction and for nothing. He felt cheated. Petulantly he pocketed his mobile and strode out the door of the lab, leaving the mess of earth and chemicals scattered across the table.

In the taxi heading towards the boarding house, he felt the anger being slowly swallowed up by a dull heaviness. He always had a bit of a letdown when a case was finished but this was worse. He considered his options. He had always wanted to conduct an experiment on the rate of speed of cuticle regression after death, but that would mean turning around and going back to Bart’s, then trying to talk the morgue into giving him a reasonably fresh sample, and he didn’t feel like doing that. He could work on his website some more but it had been getting tedious lately. Master the Bach prelude on the violin… no.

Suddenly the image of a tiny plastic bag popped into his mind. He supposed if he looked hard enough he could find some left over from before, perhaps in one of the boxes he hadn’t unpacked yet. A familiar, nearly forgotten hunger swept over him.

He made a fist and hit his leg, hard, on a nerve cluster. The immediate, radiating pain brought his mind back under control. He could not allow himself to weaken like that again. He must find some way to occupy himself until the next case presented itself. 

Suddenly a novel idea came to him. Ridiculous idea, though, he thought. There’s no way that…

He argued with himself for a few moments until he caught the eye of the cabbie looking at him in the rear view mirror and realized he had been talking out loud. Embarrassed, he pulled out his mobile and typed quickly before he could change his mind again.

>   
> **  
> _Text message to JHWatson, today, 5:54pm_  
> **
> 
> _Game of darts?_

*

“You’ve _never_ played before? Might have to revoke your British citizenship, mate,” John said.

“Doesn’t seem that hard.”

“Most fun things don’t, and are. You know the game of golf was invented when Scot said to another, ‘Bet you can’t get that rock in that hole over there with your shillelagh.’” 

John pointed to the dart board and explained the points system. “Each of us begins with 501 points, and we subtract points as we play, first one down to zero exactly wins. Hit inside the outer ring, that doubles the points, the inner ring is worth triple. Bullseye is worth 50. Try not to kill anyone.” 

“I’ll take it under advisement. You were the one throwing bottles the other night. Show me.”

John took his stance, aimed, and threw the three darts in quick succession. “Hm, not bad, 18, double six and 20 is 50 points. See?” He handed Sherlock the cluster of darts.

Sherlock took one and weighed it in the palm of his hand (“45 grams,” he muttered), then examined the fletching up close.

“Don’t ask it for a date, just throw it!” John called.

Sherlock glared at him, then mimicked John’s stance, carefully aimed, and threw. To his utter surprise, the dart failed to stick and fell to the floor. Mortified, he readjusted his aim and threw the second dart.

“ _Inside_ the circle, Sherlock,” John grinned.

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, and threw the third dart. “There! How many points is that?”

“Well done, Sherlock, that’s, ahm, three points.” John took Sherlock’s place and threw again while Sherlock watched carefully. “Triple five, 18 and 20 is 53. See how I’m aiming for the 20 so I can maximize my points?”

Sherlock took his place again and tried to put his feet in the same position John’s had been but couldn’t seem to reproduce John’s relaxed stance. He held the dart up to shoulder level and aimed, trying to calculate velocity, air resistance, muscle control…

Suddenly John grabbed his hand and pulled the dart down. “Don’t think so much,” he said.

Sherlock looked at John from the corner of his eye. John didn’t have the teasing look he had had since the game began, he looked quite serious.

“Don’t think,” he repeated, brought Sherlock’s hand back up to position and stepped back.

Sherlock bristled. Don’t think, how ridiculous. This man had no idea how hard Sherlock had worked to discipline his mind to work the way it did, and he thought he could just turn it off like a switch?

He took a deep breath and thought, ‘ _Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’tthinkdon’tthinkdon’t_ …” and threw.

“That’s the ticket,” John grinned. “Forty. Eighteen. Five. Sixty three, well done.”

Sherlock found himself grinning as he changed places with John again. John threw his darts with care – “Twelve, twenty, triple five is forty-seven. By the way, I won’t take it easy on you now that you’ve figured it out.”

Sherlock took up his stance again. “I’d be mortally insulted if you did,” he said. He watched John drink the last dregs from his beer and paused.

“John, you didn’t throw the bottle like this, did you?” He took the empty bottle from John’s hand and held it like the dart, between his first two fingers and thumb, awkwardly.

“Er, no, like this,” John said, taking back the bottle and holding it by the neck. “Then swoosh, bang.”

“Hm,” Sherlock grunted. He picked up the dart again and considered for a moment, then held it by the point between thumb and forefinger. “Don’t think,” he said quietly, and threw it at the board.

“ _Jesus_!” John said. “Let me try it like that!” 

*

They played several more rounds, with Sherlock improving upon his eccentric throw, and John experimenting but eventually returning to his traditional stance. 

“I’m going to have to concede and call it a night, Sherlock,” John said shortly after eleven. “I’m spending the weekend with my family, then back in uniform on Monday. Harry’s picking me up in the morning.”

Sherlock watched John to see if the vulnerability of the previous night would return. He saw nothing blatant, but noted that John seemed quite occupied with the bill and the zip on his jacket. Sherlock considered drawing attention to this distracted behaviour as avoidance, but decided he respected the man enough to allow him to hide his feelings if he wished. Sherlock also recognized that this was a courtesy he would have afforded no one else.

As they stepped outside, John turned to Sherlock and extended his hand. “Thank you again, Sherlock. I look forward to frightening the boys at the camp with that throw.”

Sherlock accepted the handshake and paused for slightly too long, wondering what to say. “Stay safe, John Watson,” he finally said. 

John’s smile faltered for a brief second, then returned. “You too, Sherlock.” He shook Sherlock’s hand again. “I’ll look you up when I get back and we’ll beat the tar out of some teenagers.” He released Sherlock’s hand, touched his forefinger to his forehead in a mock salute, turned and walked up the road.

Sherlock watched him go, noting the military training evident in John’s walk. He realized that if he was just observing the man without having met him or spoken to him, he would not be able to detect the man’s inner fears from his walk alone – to all outward appearances, this was a happy man without cares. But John had confided in Sherlock, shared his apprehensions, and then hidden them completely from the outside world. 

Sherlock turned away and hailed a taxi to go home.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock tucked the watchmaker’s glass into his eye, adjusted the lamp and began measuring the tip of the forefinger of the corpse hand he had brought home from the morgue. It was perfect for his purposes; the hand belonged to a man in his forties that had died of a heart attack the day before. The man had been a lawyer who clearly enjoyed the finer services available to the rich and the nails were beautifully manicured. His experiment would have been much more challenging if he had sourced a nail biter’s hand. He heard his mobile ping but finished measuring the forefinger before removing the glass and checking.

> **_Text message from JHWatson, today, 6:08pm_ **
> 
> _Busy?_
> 
> **_Text message to JHWatson, today, 6:15pm_ **
> 
> _A little. Why? SH._
> 
> **_Text message from JHWatson, today, 6:20pm_ **
> 
> _Ever had dim sum?_
> 
> **_Text message to JHWatson, today, 6:22pm_ **
> 
> _Yes, quite like it actually. Thought you were with your family.  SH._
> 
> **_Text message from JHWatson, today, 6:25pm_ **
> 
> _Had a row._
> 
> **_Text message to JHWatson, today, 6:26pm_ **
> 
> _Royal China OK?  SH._

*

In the end, John had requested they take away the food to his hotel room (“Thank God for the military discount,” he’d said). He had been uncharacteristically quiet during the meal, and though Sherlock was terribly curious, he had so far been able to fight his natural instinct to ask questions.

John popped the last prawn from his takeaway into his mouth and put down the box with a sigh. “That was good,” he said. “Want some tea? I could probably figure out how to make it in the coffee maker.”

“God, no,” Sherlock replied.

“Yeah, tastes like shit that way, doesn’t it.”

“We could probably pop down to the bar and get something.”

“No, I’d really actually rather not be in the bar tonight, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock waited. He knew from his experience with criminals that if someone really wanted to talk, he could remain silent, and they would eventually fill the void. He didn’t have to wait long.

“My dad – our dad – was a drinker. Really bad. Don’t get me wrong, I like a drink as much as the next man, but it’s strictly beer for me. Dad liked the hard stuff. Scotch when he could afford it, gin when he couldn’t. Can’t tell you how many times my mother had to put him to bed. Later, he got fatter with the drink, I’d have to help her, she couldn’t lift him anymore. It killed him eventually, died when I was ten. Even then, I couldn’t help but think ‘Thank God’.” 

John fiddled with his chopsticks for a moment, then took a deep breath.

“Harry picked me up this morning and we drove into Southampton. We weren’t in the house half an hour before the whisky came out. Started drinking toasts to me, the Royal Marines… then eventually the Afghan nation, Bin Laden… We hadn’t even had lunch and Harry was just roaring drunk. I said something like, ‘Who’d have guessed you’d be the one to turn out like Dad?’ and then we were just screaming at each other. I finally just picked up my pack – hadn’t even unpacked yet – and walked out. Walked to the train station, got bloody drenched, and got on the next train back to London.”

He looked up at Sherlock, who was disarmed at the anger and grief in John’s eyes. “Nice fuckin’ sendoff, huh? ‘Fare thee well, brother, bottoms up, don’t get shot.’”

“What about your mother?” Sherlock asked.

John returned his gaze to his chopsticks. “Mum died two years ago, just as I finished basic training. I got 48 hours leave for the funeral and shipped out a week later.”

“Oh.” Sherlock was silent for a moment. “I am _very_ sorry about the jumper, then.” 

John half laughed. “Not to worry, she made me one every Christmas and every birthday my whole life. I’ve got millions.” He looked up at Sherlock. “Sherlock, I’m sorry, I’m such a downer, and I’m sure you had plans for this evening.”

“No, nothing particularly,” Sherlock lied.

John held Sherlock’s gaze. “It’s good of you to do this. You hardly know me, and you’re willing to hear me piss and moan. I’m very grateful.”

“I’m… I’m honoured that you would call me.”

John threw down the chopsticks and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Do you think the London Eye would be running tomorrow? Sunday?”

“I think so.”

“Might be fun, rubberneck with the tourists and go up. Never been on, y’know? See the whole city laid out like that, might be a good way to bid a fond farewell to Jollie Olde Londinium?”

“If you like.”

“One night, a bunch of the lads were telling stories about what they’d done before we shipped out. I was so busy and messed up about Mum I hadn’t done anything special, but some of them had really made an occasion of it. Most of them just got roaring drunk, and the flight was just hell with the hangovers. There was one man,” John started laughing at the memory, “one man who had sex with his wife six times the day before we left. He was trying to get her pregnant. God, he was in so much pain. The look on his face when we started to quickmarch nearly killed me.” 

John was becoming breathless with laughter. “There was one idiot that went skydiving. Skydiving. He’s about to go into a war zone and he goes skydiving for fun. We had to go up in a helicopter to get to the camp and he turned to me and said, ‘If I’d known about this I would have saved fifty quid.’”

He giggled for a moment. “God, he was stupid. All these stupid things… Ever done something really stupid, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was taken aback, and John immediately held his hand up. “I apologize, that’s an insulting question.”

“Not at all.”

“I can’t imagine you doing anything stupid.”

“Cocaine.”

John was shocked into silence. Sherlock looked down at his hands.

“I got into it because I was bored, had nothing to focus my mind on. It started as an experiment on biorhythmic reactions to recreational drugs, but before very long I was addicted. My brother found out and got me into a rehabilitation programme. Six of the worst weeks of my life. Not just the withdrawal, that was bad enough, but there were group sessions and we had to get together and _talk_ about our _feelings_.” Sherlock shuddered internally at the memory.  “Plus the smug look on Mycroft’s face was unbearable. I got clean so I wouldn’t have to deal with that anymore.”  

Sherlock was surprised at how easy it was to talk about this part of his life; he had never told anyone before. 

“After I completed the rehabilitation programme, Mycroft introduced me to Detective Inspector Lestrade at the Met and he started bringing me in on cases. It was partly to keep me occupied and partly so Lestrade could keep an eye on me. Not that either of them admitted that but I knew. Fortunately Lestrade isn’t unbearably irritating and he only brings me the very interesting cases, so I stayed on.”

“How long have you been clean?” 

“Two years.” Sherlock decided not to mention the cravings of the day before.

John shook his head. “Well, congratulations, that’s not easy.” He looked up at Sherlock, his face crinkling into a teasing grin. “So, the only stupid things you’ve done are cocaine, and getting cornered in dark alleys with blokes the size of Mount Everest. Mate, we’ve _got_ to find you some less dangerous hobbies.”

“Like darts.” Sherlock found himself grinning back.

“Croquet.”

“Badminton.”

“You play badminton?”

“God, no.”

“What do you play?”

“The violin.”

John started laughing again. “God, you really are from the moon. You solve these incredible crimes, can figure out someone’s life story from their fingernails, and you’ve never eaten a burger or played a game in your life? No wonder you pick up all these risky habits.”

Sherlock saw a new look creep into John’s eyes – something mischievous. “I’ve got it – something stupid and yet quite safe.” He jumped up, grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve and dragged him to the balcony of the room.

“Haven’t done this since I was in my teens,” he said, opening the sliding door and stepping out onto the tiny balcony. He leaned over the railing and shouted into the summer night, out into the city, “Hello, London!”

He cocked his ear to hear the responding echo, with dogs barking and someone from the street shouting back, “Shut the fuck up!”

He filled his lungs, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted again, “Manchester U _SUCKS_!”

Sherlock felt the laughter boiling up out of him, starting from the pit of his belly and roaring up out of his mouth. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes as he rocked with it. Without thinking he leaned over the balcony next to John and shouted the first thing that came into his head: “GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!”

“And you as well!” came the voice from the street.

This sent them both off into new waves of laughter. They held on to the balcony for support until their laughter eventually settled down. John wiped tears from his eyes. “God, that was brilliant.” He caught Sherlock’s eye, starting both of them giggling again. Sherlock’s stomach ached.

Without warning, John stepped forward to Sherlock, reached up and kissed him softly on the lips.

Sherlock stopped laughing abruptly and stared at John in shock.

John stepped back, looking shocked himself. “Well.” He cleared his throat, looked down and rubbed his neck. “Um. I’ve never done that. Before. Sorry.” He flicked his eyes up but couldn’t quite look Sherlock in the face.

“Sorry. Sorry. I-” Sherlock could see from the light in the room the blush spreading up John’s neck and face. “I should – I need to go.” John swiftly stepped back into the room, grabbed his jacket and walked quickly out.

Sherlock stood on the balcony, paralyzed, gazing at the closed door of the hotel room. He dimly heard the noise of the city behind him, one dog still barking. Finally he stepped into the room and carefully closed and locked the balcony door. He buttoned his jacket. He walked quietly across the room, opened the door. He hesitated for a moment, looking back at the takeaway boxes scattered across the table, then closed the door silently. 

There were several taxis at the hotel entrance. He stepped into the first one, gave his address and leaned back, looking out the window at the lights of the city. When he arrived at the boarding house he paid the driver without looking at the note and went up to his room. Without turning on any lights, he lay down on the narrow bed, fully clothed, placed his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. He did not sleep. 


	7. Chapter 7

He was still awake but nonetheless startled when he heard banging on his door at half past two in the morning. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes, I know you’re there!”

More thumping, with a cacophony of voices from the other tenants of the building protesting their broken sleep. Sherlock turned on the lamp and opened the door. John stumbled in, his face florid and sweaty.

He stood for a moment, swaying slightly, and Sherlock realized the man was quite drunk. John stabilized himself and raised a finger to Sherlock. 

“I. Am not. Gay.”

Sherlock opened his mouth but nothing came out.

“You understand? I’m not, got it?” John said, his voice rising.

“Yes, I understand.”

John waved his hand as if brushing something away. “Need to be perf… perfectly clear.”

Sherlock nodded. 

John licked his lips and nodded. “Right. Right.” He turned back towards the door, then turned back with renewed energy, raising his voice again. “It’s dangerous, you know! Fucking dangerous.”

Sherlock felt he had entered a conversation that John was already half way through. “I don’t understand,” he said.

John laughed to himself and spoke as if to an unseen audience. “He doesn’t understand. The great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t understand something. The heavens weep.” He faced Sherlock again. “Love! _Love_ is dangerous, don’t you know that? S’ just stupid, you know? It distracts you, makes you vulner… vulner… There was one time,” John staggered again and readjusted his balance, “There was one time, this… _boy_ … at the camp. He got a letter from his girl, back home. He was so ex-excited, all the men were teasing him so he went off on his own. He went and sat under a stupid tree by his stupid self, reading his stupid letter, and, and, and there was a sniper, and…” John stammered into silence. His finger slowly went to the middle of his forehead. “Right here. Right… Blood all over the letter…” John made a fist and pounded his head. “You see? So I can’t… I won’t let… Do you understand?” He was shouting again. 

Sherlock’s ears were buzzing and he had lost the capacity to think, to speak. He nodded jerkily. 

John stared at him for a moment, then nodded curtly, savagely opened the door and slammed it behind him, leaving Sherlock standing frozen in the middle of his room.

*

Sherlock was unaware of how many hours he had been sitting in his chair, fingertips pressed together under his chin, when he heard a quiet knock on his door. He assumed it was his landlord, coming to complain about the noise the night before. “Yes,” he called.

The door opened and John slid into the room and stood with his back against the door. Sherlock stood, surprised.

John stood there for a moment, scratching his ear. “Sherlock, um,” he said, and paused again. “Sherlock, I want to apologize. My behaviour last night was simply unforgivable. But I hope you can. Forgive me.” 

Sherlock was once again unable to speak. He noted the dark circles under John’s eyes.

“Some bloody hypocrite I am, aren’t I,” John said quietly. “I get all furious with Harry for drinking and then go get pissed myself. And then I go and yell at someone who doesn’t deserve it at all. So. I am terribly, terribly sorry.” 

He looked up at Sherlock expectantly, hopefully. After a long moment, Sherlock jerked his head in a half nod.

John looked slightly disappointed with the response. “Right. All right then. Thanks.” He turned to the door.

“John,” Sherlock called out, his voice coming out hoarsely. John turned back and looked at him curiously.

Sherlock thought, ‘ _Don’t think_.’ He crossed to John and reached out his right hand as though blind, grasping at the material of John’s shirt at the shoulder. _Don’t think_. His left hand pulled the material into a bunch in his fist at John’s collarbone. _Don’t think_. 

“Don’t go,” he said.

He pulled John towards him, dipped his head down and covered John’s mouth with his own. 

It felt… right. After a moment, Sherlock felt John’s hands in his hair, and that felt right too. 

*

They lay curled up on Sherlock’s narrow bed, forehead to forehead, moving dreamily between kissing and staring at each other in wonder and curiosity. John’s left hand was still tangled in Sherlock’s hair; Sherlock’s right hand was slipped beneath John’s shirt collar, rubbing the back of John’s neck, feeling the bristles of hair under his fingertips. Sherlock was hypnotized by the rise and fall of John’s ribcage as he drew breath. The intimacy was overwhelming and intoxicating.  

John broke the silence first. “Right, one of us needs to say it.”

“All right,” Sherlock said. “What happens now?”

John gave a minute shrug of his shoulders and adjusted his head on the pillow. “I go to Afghanistan.”

“And then you come back?”

“And then I come back.”

“Then what?”

“…Then I don’t know.” 

Sherlock felt a moment of insecurity, as if the floor had tipped like a boat at sea. It must have shown in his eyes, because John immediately protested, “No, no, Sherlock, I don’t mean… Oh, hell, I don’t know, Sherlock, this is a little outside my experience.”

“Being in love, or…?” 

“I’ve been in love, but not like this,” John said, smiling up at Sherlock. “Certainly not with a man. I’ve no idea of the… logistics.”

“Hm.” Sherlock smiled without humour. “Nor I… but at least you have a basis of comparison.”

“What?”

Sherlock was silent, unable to express a lifetime of behaviour in words.

“Have you never had a boyfriend?” Sherlock gave a small shake of his head. “Girlfriend?” A smaller shake.  “Bloody hell, really?”

“A girl in school kissed me when I was fourteen. I think it was on a dare, because she ran off laughing. Never came near me again. That, my dear Dr. Watson, is the sum total of my _experience_.” He smiled wryly. “I never missed it, though. Easier to work, less distraction…  Never bothered me. Until now.”

“You’ve a lot of learning to do, then.” John’s eyes crinkled.

“Help me,” Sherlock replied softly.

They kissed for a while longer. Sherlock gently ran his thumb along John’s jawline. “I don’t want to talk about this, but I suppose we must,” he said. “How long is your tour?”

John closed his eyes in pain. “Eighteen months.”

“Eighteen months?!” Sherlock catapulted off the bed; he felt as if he was about to be sick. “God, how can I… How can you…?” He leaned against the wall and grabbed fistfuls of his hair. “Eighteen months of thinking about you and not knowing, not being able to…” He had never felt emotions like this, uncontrollable. He felt like mercury was boiling inside his stomach. “Promise me, John, promise me that…” He realized he was no longer making sense and forced himself to stop.

John sat up on the bed; Sherlock saw terrible sadness in his eyes. “I can’t make promises I can’t keep,” he said. “You know where I’m going and what I have to do.” He stood and crossed to Sherlock and put his hands on either side of his face. “I just know that… now I’ve got something to come back for. We’ll figure it out, Sherlock.”

He leaned up against Sherlock and kissed him deeply. Sherlock found his fear ebbing away and being replaced with quite another feeling, one he couldn’t name. He pulled John closer to him. 

After a long while, they released the kiss and held their heads close together, breathing the same air. John laughed shakily. “I’m starting to get some ideas about the logistics.” 

Sherlock tucked his face into the curve of John’s neck. His skin smelt of hot sun, sand and Ivory soap; he wondered how he smelt to John. 

John rested the top of his head against Sherlock’s chest and sighed. “Christ, Sherlock,” he said. “I’ve never thought further ahead the next week or next month. I usually just… improvise, ride things through, you know?”

Sherlock, who lived his life through meticulous planning, could not wholly understand but was starting to. “Don’t think?” he asked. 

“Yeah, ‘Don’t think’.” Sherlock could feel John smiling against his chest. 

“If you’d asked me a month ago what I would do when I got back from this tour, I would have said – oh, I don’t know – sign up for another tour, find work in London, take care of old ladies’ horny old feet in bloody Glasgow, who knows.” 

John pulled back and looked levelly into Sherlock’s face. “I don’t know what will happen when I get back, okay? But now… I do know that whatever it is, you’ll be a part of it. You’ll be a part of whatever decision I make. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”

Sherlock was silent. John looked suddenly unsure. “If that’s what you want?” he asked, his forehead creasing.

Sherlock saw that John had opened a door into his life for him, and was inviting him in. No one had ever offered Sherlock into their life in this way, and Sherlock realized that he had never permitted anyone to get close enough to even contemplate the idea. Outside the door, the place where Sherlock had lived his life, was planned, predictable, a known factor; through the door was a completely unknown way of living, of being. It was a terrifying thought. But John was inviting him there, and John would be there. 

“Yes,” he finally replied. “God, yes.”

They held on to each other for a long time, until they became aware of the shift of the light in the room.

John sighed. “The sun’s going down,” he said. “I need to go back to the hotel and pack, and my train leaves early tomorrow.” He looked up and saw the look on Sherlock’s face and looked dismayed. “No, no, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean… come with me? Please?”

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged with relief. He nodded and straightened, buttoning up his jacket.

John looked around the messy room. “Sherlock, when I get back…”

“Yes?”

“Get a better flat, will you? A bigger one, with large windows. I need lots of sunshine in a flat.”

Sherlock smiled and bowed slightly. “Yes, _sir_.”

John looked up at him, sudden incredulity in his eyes. “Are we really doing this? Are we really planning a future after only – what, three days’ acquaintance?”

“Two days, twenty hours, and,” Sherlock checked his watch, “forty six minutes.” He smiled. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> residentbunburyist did a lovely piece of art for this chapter! Check it out: http://residentbunburyist.tumblr.com/post/95099297381/blogstandbygo-im-a-sucker-for-johnlock-cuddles


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock leaned on the hotel room’s balcony railing, watching the first hints of the sun rising over London while John showered. “It’s my last proper shower for eighteen months,” he had said. “I’ll try not to take half an hour but no guarantees.”

He tried to imagine what a sunrise would look like in Afghanistan. He realized he had no idea about the geography of that country; he would have to make a study of it. Also follow the news about the war. It would probably terrify him on a daily basis but that would be better than not knowing. 

John had asked him not to come to the train station. “I’m not sure I could see you on the platform and willingly get on the train,” he had said. “This is hard enough, but that might make me risk desertion.” 

He took a sip of coffee and grimaced as he heard John behind him. “John, the coffee’s vile, we could probably get better…” He turned. “…oh.”

John had changed into uniform: sand coloured, shapeless fatigues. He spread his arms out, as though modelling. “What d’you think? It’s the latest trend,” he joked, but his smile did not reach his eyes. 

Sherlock was startled at how the change in dress changed John’s entire demeanour. This was now clearly a soldier before him, not the clever, teasing man who had taught him to play darts and to stop thinking. He put down his coffee, crossed to John and grabbed at the front of the jacket as he had done the night before. The material was coarse and rough, unlike the smooth cotton of John’s regular shirt. He pulled John in, wrapped his arms around him and kissed him on the forehead. “Please be careful,” he whispered.

“I will,” John replied. “You as well. No more getting cornered in dark alleys.”

“Oh, that won’t happen again. I’ve memorized the alley system now.”

“Of course you have,” John smiled. This time his smile did reach his eyes.

They stood without moving for a long time. John finally said quietly, “Sherlock, it’s time to go.” 

Sherlock nodded and released him. John picked up his pack and shouldered it. He extended his hand to Sherlock. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

They held hands in the empty elevator but released as the doors opened. Sherlock waited by the door while John checked out. He was not accustomed to this level of raw emotion and he breathed deeply to control himself as he looked out at the weak sunshine. Moments later, John stepped up next to him and gave him a reassuring smile, and they left the building together.

On the street, John turned to face Sherlock. “I won’t be able to call or email regularly,” he said. “But sometimes we can arrange a Skype call. Is that okay?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what a Skype was but he would find out. “Yes.” 

“And… no letters?”

“No letters.”

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, would you do me a favour,” he said. He licked his lips nervously.

“Yes, of course.”

“I don’t think I can watch you walk away. Would you… would you walk away, and not turn back? I’ll do the same, but first.”

“…All right.”

John nodded, and smiled at Sherlock. Then he turned on his heel and walked briskly away. 

Sherlock forced himself to turn and walk in the opposite direction. He walked to the corner of the hotel and turned around. 

He saw John one block over, facing him, grinning. “Liar!” John called, waved and walked away. 

 

**End of Part One**


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sherlock goes to a really intense crime scene here - potentially trigger-y. Summary at the end if you'd prefer to skip.

**Part II**

As Sherlock walked swiftly towards the flashing lights and yellow tape of the police cordon, he felt the usual excitement he felt when he had a new case, but this time it was also mixed with some relief. It had been three weeks since John had left, and longer since he’d had a half decent case to work on, and it had been agony. He had begun and abandoned several research projects in an attempt to occupy himself, but had been unable to focus long enough to be as precise as required. 

He recognized that the situation he was in would have been difficult for anyone, but his lack of experience with human relationships redoubled the self-doubt and anxiety. He found himself questioning over and over again how people functioned with this level of vulnerability. He sometimes feared that his anguish showed on his face, that the whole story was written on his body for anyone to see.

He was aware that Lestrade was suspicious of his uncharacteristic behaviour, and wouldn’t put it past him to voice those suspicions to Mycroft. Sherlock dealt with this by one day walking unannounced into Lestrade’s office, silently rolling up his sleeves to reveal his forearms, allowing them to be inspected, then striding out without a word.

He had followed the news of Afghanistan but found it did not provide sufficient data for his purposes. He grudgingly admitted to himself that the very lack of public information on action in the war zone was for John’s own protection. 

Time seemed to have elongated; these three weeks had felt like years, and Sherlock could barely imagine how he would get through another seventeen months.

But now there was this case. Lestrade had been reluctant to share details over the phone but even what he could reveal was tantalizing: multiple murders, an entire family including children, probably a psychopathic criminal. Sherlock sped up his pace.

Lestrade himself met him at the border of the police cordon; one look at his face told Sherlock that this crime scene had rattled even the experienced police officer. “Thanks for coming so quickly, Sherlock,” he said. He led Sherlock towards the house. “This way – up in the attic.”

Sherlock’s normal routine was to enter a crime scene slowly, almost on tiptoe. This time, his eagerness caused him to forget and overshoot his entrance to the room. He stopped short, his head snapping back.  The room was a tsunami of images and data, and the impact on Sherlock was nearly a physical blow. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them again slowly.

_Right. Focus. Break it down._

_Victims grouped in the centre of the room: adult male, adult female, male child aged approximately eight years, female child approximately five years. Multiple slash wounds; some fatal in and of themselves, others are superfluous and seemingly symbolic. Any similarities…. None discernible at this distance, examine more closely later._

_Several pools of blood, near the bodies and all around the room. Must take samples from each and discern the geography of the murders within the space. That idiot Anderson is standing too near that pool of blood in the northwest corner. He’s always complaining to me about disturbing crime scenes… never mind him, focus._

_Photos. Covering all four walls, climbing up to the peak of the roof. Polaroids, three by four inches, standard size for Polaroid film. Pinned neatly with thumbtacks. Killer must have brought the thumbtacks, film and camera with him. North wall, twelve photos high, twenty six across, so three hundred twelve photos on that wall alone. Not pinned in a linear pattern, so number is an approximation, get an accurate count later. South wall, about the same. East wall wider, about six hundred twenty four photos there. None on the wall with the door. So about one thousand two hundred fifty photos in all. All pictures of the victims. Some while living, some after death. Each photo another clue. So many. So many. Focus._

_Any pattern to the photos? Can’t see. Random. Can’t be random, nothing is random. Grouped by victim? Chronologically, in the order the killer took them? Documenting his act. Doubtful he would have left any prints on the pictures but should dust nonetheless. Forensics will need a team for this alone. The fingerprint dust might ruin the quality of the film, erase some clue. Must analyze and categorize the pictures before forensics get their hands on them. Dust will ruin them. Dust and sand make fine scratches on the surface of the film. Sandstorms in the desert. Stop. Focus._

_God, now Donovan’s here. Why is Lestrade letting all these people in the room? She’s pale, but not just because of the crime scene… oh, she had an argument with her sister. Something about her niece. She’s fixating on the body of the girl. Niece must be the same age. Doesn’t matter. Focus._

_Room is empty apart from the bodies and photos – no furniture, boxes, junk, normal items for a storage space like this. Forgot to ask Lestrade if this is the family home. If not they were brought here, living, judging from the photos. Given their weight and good skin, likely an affluent or at least middle class family; this is a dodgy neighbourhood, so likely brought here. Is the rest of the house empty? Or just the attic? Did the killer clear it out before bringing them here? Check the floor for scratch marks of heavy furniture. Yes. There, there, there, all towards the door. Cleared out then. No windows in the attic, he could work all day here and not be observed from the street. Need to find a flat with large windows. No. Stop. Focus._

_Donovan’s going to start drooling soon if she doesn’t stop gawping and close her mouth. Does she not realize that makes her look even stupider than she already is? I should tell Lestrade to tell them all to leave, but he’d probably argue and I can’t stop to argue with him. God, I can hear Lestrade breathing, there’s too much noise in here. Car wheels squealing down the street. Car bomb in Kabul yesterday, hope John was nowhere near._

_Stop. Stop. Focus. Don’t think about John now. Don’t. Focus. Focus._

_Right. Inhale. Coppery smell of blood, but no putrification, so bodies not here for long. Mould. Dust. From the attic itself, or the contents that were here. A sharp smell – alcohol, but not liquor – rubbing alcohol. Used as a disinfectant, perhaps on the murder weapon? Interesting. Something else, very faint. What. Grass? Grass. Why grass? Must check floor for samples. Gardenias. No. Not real, but a perfume or scented soap. The woman. Or the killer? Female killer? Unlikely according to statistics, but can’t rule it out. Better not be Donovan. John smelt of Ivory soap. No. No. No. Stop._

_The photos there must be a pattern. Nothing is random. Nothing. Not even psychopathic behaviour is random everything has meaning to them. There must be a pattern if Anderson doesn’t stop smirking I’m going to punch him look for the pattern there must be one one thousand two hundred fifty photos must make a pattern of some kind can’t see it must be there John squeal of tires again it’s too loud in here there’s too many pictures too much to look at Lestrade’s look at me oddly now I hate all of them must find the pattern it must be there they’re all staring at me now I’m breathing too quickly they think I’m a freak and I don’t care but there must be a pattern like a dartboard 45 grams don’t think John no don’t think about John put him out of your mind and FOCUS!_

_I don’t want to put him out of my mind, I want him HERE._

The idea came to Sherlock with sudden and perfect clarity. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and gave into imagining John in detail: the colour of his hair, the tan of his skin, the shape of his mouth, the slope of his shoulders. He had not allowed himself to do this since John left but now he surrendered. He imagined John leaning against the doorway, arms folded, a sardonic, teasing smile on his face. 

Sherlock felt his tension drain away and be replaced with calm, with renewed confidence. He released his hands and brought them down again. He looked around at the photos again, and suddenly the pattern snapped into focus, as if the photos were glowing. 

He gave a small smile to the image of John, then opened his mouth to speak.

*

Sherlock let himself into his room and collapsed in his chair. He was at once both exhausted and elated. He was a long way from identifying the killer, but the pattern in the photos had given him some strong indications of the direction to take from here. Lestrade was bringing in a photographer to capture the images of the Polaroids so Sherlock could examine them at his leisure while the fingerprinting team went to work. And he had found fragments of grass on the floor, as he had thought he might; analyzing them might indicate some geographical clues.

Most importantly, Sherlock felt more at peace than he had in weeks. He realized how much time and effort he had put into avoiding thinking about John, and trying to rationalize his emotional shift of character. He now realized that rationalizing was a waste and gave him no benefit. He was simply _better_ when John was near, real or imagined. And the image would simply have to do until the real John was with him again.

He opened his laptop, opened Skype and entered his password. He placed the laptop on the table where he could see it if a notification was received. 

Then he emptied his pockets of the samples of grass, dust and blood, pulled his chair up to the microscope and began to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary for those who chose to skip: Sherlock gets called to an intense crime scene. Overwhelmed by data and still struggling with his feelings for John, Sherlock nears the breaking point until he accidentally stumbles upon a solution: he imagines John in the room. Immediately calmed, he is able to discern the pattern of clues. He realizes that he is better with John, whether real or imagined.


	10. Chapter 10

“And you haven’t found the murder weapon?”

Sherlock and Lestrade stood over the body of a woman in her sixties, standing well clear of the pool of blood that radiated from the head. 

“No, nothing,” replied Lestrade. “Son and daughter in law found her when they came for supper. Door locked, no signs of a break in or anything stolen. What do you make of it?” 

Sherlock crouched down and got as close to the body’s mangled head as he could, examining it through his pocket magnifier. “Large blunt weapon was used… at least twenty centimetres in diameter. A single blow to the back of the head.”

He stood and sniffed. He looked around the well-appointed living room then strode across the room, stepped up the few steps to the kitchen and opened the oven door.  He smiled. “Clever.”

As he closed the oven door his mobile rang. He pulled the latex gloves off his hands and glanced at the call display. To Lestrade’s surprise, Sherlock turned his back to the living room and answered the call.

“Sherlock Holmes. Yes. Yes.”

A long pause. Lestrade caught the eye of the local detective, DI Crawford, who looked back with confusion and a bit of irritation. He shrugged.

“Where?” Sherlock said. He looked at his watch. “I’ll be on the next train, should be there in three hours.” He snapped the phone shut and immediately walked to the door.

“Sherlock! Where are you going?” Lestrade called.

Sherlock didn’t break his stride or turn around. “Arrest the daughter in law. Don’t eat the murder weapon.” The door slammed shut.

Crawford stared at the door and the figure walking briskly to the street, then turned to Lestrade. “Is he always like that?”

*

Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently while his identification was inspected. The young private seemed intent on checking all the security features on Sherlock’s ID, and possibly memorizing it. 

“Thank you, sir,” he finally said. “If you would take a seat, please, and Doctor Lyon will be right with you.” Sherlock glared and pointedly did not take a seat, but paced up and down the lobby.

“Mr. Holmes,” called a man in a white lab coat. Sherlock noted the military insignia on the breast pocket. “Through here, please.”

Sherlock followed the doctor through to a small office. “Please have a seat.”

“Where is he?” Sherlock said tersely.

“I need to brief you first, Mr. Holmes. Please. Sit.”

Sherlock reluctantly obeyed. The doctor sat at his desk and folded his hands. “Firstly, Mr. Holmes, I need to apologize for the delay in contacting you. There was some confusion over Captain Watson’s emergency contact form, as he had recently made changes to it. Please accept our apologies.”

Sherlock nodded curtly. 

“Mr. Holmes, Captain Watson has been very badly injured. There are many, many-” 

“Stop patronizing me,” Sherlock said through his teeth. “ _Tell_ me.”

The doctor hesitated, then opened a file on his desk and began to read from it. “Captain Watson’s unit came under attack by rebel forces on 17 October. They were subjected to hostile gunfire and shelling for a prolonged period. Captain Watson received a bullet wound to the right quadricep, and another bullet passed through the left deltoid, fortunately missing the shoulder bone. Both bullets have been removed. At some point a grenade exploded near Captain Watson and he was blown into a low stone wall and received a head injury, though the skull did not fracture. If he had not been wearing his helmet he would most certainly have been killed immediately. An MRI indicates swelling and a possible lesion to the hippocampus area of the brain. He has not yet regained consciousness.” He closed the folder and folded his hands again. “We had to stabilize him enough to bring him back to England, but we did so to ensure he had the best care, here at the army hospital. The next few days will tell but I cannot conjecture at this time what his chances are.” 

Sherlock found himself concentrating on his breathing, noting how shallow it was, how fast his heart was beating. “Have you informed his family? His brother?”

The doctor frowned. “There was no brother listed on Captain Watson’s emergency contact list.” He stood. “I’ll take you to see him now, if you wish.”

“Yes.”

He led Sherlock through a seemingly unending labyrinth of corridors. Sherlock was grateful that the doctor respected his need to be silent.

The doctor finally stopped in front of a door. “Captain Watson’s rank affords him a private room, but we can read his vitals at all times from the nurses’ station. If there is any change in his status we will be here immediately.” The doctor looked at him carefully. “All right then?”

“Yes.”

The doctor pushed the door open and allowed Sherlock to enter. 

Sherlock stood just inside the room, looking at the mass of wires, tubes and equipment that surrounded the hospital bed. He could hear the beeping of a heart monitor and the hiss of an oxygen tank. In the centre of the bed there appeared to be a white pile of cloth. He approached cautiously. As he reached the side of the bed, he saw a break in the whiteness – a brush of sandy hair.

“John. Oh, John,” he sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of cooking the murder weapon comes from Roald Dahl's short story, "Lamb to the Slaughter".


	11. Chapter 11

Over the next several days, Sherlock became accustomed to the strange music of the hospital room, of the different rhythms of the various machines connected to John, to the ebb and flow of hospital staff. 

He subsisted on coffee and potato crisps. He was able to pull a chair close to the bed and sit next to John, holding his hand, not caring who saw. He noted the bruising on the back of John’s hand where the IV needle pierced the skin. He felt his mobile buzz every once and a while, but he ignored it.

He would scan the medical personnel when they came in to check on John, change the saline bag or turn him in the bed; after they left the room he would murmur his deductions about them to John, hoping for some flicker of recognition or response. 

He pondered the thought experiments of Schrödinger. He calculated the drip rate of the various IVs around John’s bed. He calculated the average of John’s heart rate over an hour, then compared the result to his own. He recited the periodic table to himself. All he seemed to be able to hear was a faint buzzing noise, unrelated to hospital activities.

After five days, mental and physical exhaustion and lack of food began to catch up with him. The buzzing and the hiss of oxygen seemed to be drilling into his brain and he found it harder to keep his eyes open. The hospital bed seemed irresistibly soft. He leaned forward in his chair and laid his head on the edge of the bed near John’s knee. He kept his hand curled around John’s fingers.

It could have been a few minutes later, or a few hours later, but in his sleep Sherlock gradually became aware of a new sound in the room, one he hadn’t heard before – a low groan.

He snapped into wakefulness immediately and listened again. He was beginning to believe he had dreamed the sound when he heard it again, unmistakeable. 

“John?” He leaned closer. “John?”

He was suddenly startled by John’s hand twitching within his. He squeezed back gently. “John, it’s Sherlock. Can you hear me?” Almost immediately he saw John’s eyelids flicker.

“Oh God. John?” Sherlock raised his voice, as though John was far away and simply needed to be coaxed closer. He felt hope beating around his brain like a bird trapped in a room.

Sherlock saw John’s right hand, the opposite to the one he was holding, rise into the air as if searching for something. After so many days of John’s profound stillness, Sherlock found himself mesmerized by the movement. He watched the hand rise to John’s face.

Suddenly the timbre of John’s voice changed, becoming louder and clamorous. His hand blundered around his face, finding the oxygen tube at his nostrils. Suddenly he ripped the tube free, tearing the medical tape off his face. 

John’s eyes flew open and Sherlock saw sheer terror in them. John’s voice rose to a wordless scream.

Sherlock ran to the door, ripped it open and shouted, “Nurse! Nurse!” but they were already coming, several nurses running down the hallway. He turned back to John.

In the few seconds Sherlock had been turned away John had ripped the IV needle from his left hand and blood was dripping on the white sheets. John was struggling with the other tubes around his body, trying to sit up but lacking the strength.

Nurses began pouring into the room, their voices a building to a cacophony while John’s screaming continued unabated. One nurse turned back to Sherlock and gently but firmly propelled him out of the room.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “They often wake up confused. Let us do our work, we’ll stabilize him and he’ll be right as rain tomorrow.” 

Sherlock stared at her, wide eyed, adrenaline and blood beating in his head, not able to understand her words. She took him by the shoulders and gave him a small shake. “This is good news, Mr. Holmes. He’s awake. Go and sleep, let us help him now. You’ll see him in the morning.” She held his gaze for a moment until he nodded, then she turned and re-entered the room.

Sherlock stood until he felt his knees begin to shake from the post-adrenaline shock. He raised his hand in front of his eyes and noted the flutter of his fingers. Holding onto the wall to support himself, he made his way down the corridor towards the exit, trying not to hear John’s screams. 

*

When he returned to the hospital the next morning, Sherlock approached John’s door tentatively. He had rehearsed every possible scenario in his head but still felt dreadfully unprepared. He slowly pushed the door open and stepped through.

Most of the equipment surrounding John’s bed had disappeared. John was lying on the bed, eyes closed. A nurse was reading the heart monitor; Sherlock recognized her from the day before. She turned to Sherlock and smiled a greeting. 

Sherlock gestured at the bed. “Is he…?”

“Sleeping. Just sleeping. Coma’s not the same as sleep, you know, he’s very tired still, has a lot of healing left to do.” She made a final note on her clipboard and walked towards the door. “Just sit quietly with him and he’ll wake up soon.” She smiled kindly at Sherlock and left the room.

Sherlock crossed the room and sat in the chair, trying to make no noise. He noted the difference in John’s present sleep as opposed to the coma of the past few days; his breathing was deeper, more natural. Sherlock could see John’s eyes moving under his lids and realized he was in the REM stage of sleep. He knew this to be a deep stage of sleep, but also the last one before a natural awakening. 

He reached over and took John’s hand into his own, feeling the rough callouses on the fingers and palm, noting the bruise, now a vivid purple and yellow, where the IV needle had been. He covered the ugly bruise with his other hand.

Sherlock saw John’s eyes flicker and open. Sherlock found himself unable to speak, but smiled at the sight of John’s dark blue eyes. 

John’s eyes focussed on Sherlock. “Who the _hell_ are you?”

Sherlock wondered for a brief moment whether John was teasing him in his usual fashion, but looking at his face betrayed that theory. John’s eyes were cold, frightened, angry. John looked down at Sherlock’s hands surrounding his own. He jerked his hand away.

“Don’t fucking touch me. Who the hell are you, how did you get in?”  John was trying to move himself up the bed, away from Sherlock. “Nurse! Nurse!” he shouted. “Jesus Christ, NURSE!”

A nurse came crashing through the door. “Captain?”

“This man snuck in my room, how did he get here? Call security, now!”

The nurse who had been checking John earlier entered and took Sherlock by the arm. “Come away, now,” she told him quietly. 

“Get him out!” Sherlock heard John shout as he was propelled out the door. The nurse kept pushing Sherlock down the hall with a strength that belied her small, bird-like body; Sherlock was too shocked to protest. She moved Sherlock away from John’s room to a small waiting area where she made Sherlock sit, pulled a chair over and sat across from him.

“What happened?” she said.

“He… he didn’t know me.”

“That’s common. It’s not like the movies, you know, people don’t go from a comatose state to…”

Sherlock interrupted her impatiently. “What’s his present rating on the Glasgow Coma Scale?”

She sat back and gave Sherlock a long, considering look, then seemed to come to a decision. “Yesterday morning he was rated as a one; you saw him progress to a two. Today, he rated a four.” 

“But progress is not continuous or predictable.” 

The nurse sighed. “The brain is a very strange thing, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “We know more about the moon, hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, than about the brain in our own heads. We can’t predict how the brain will react to an injury, how it will heal. It’s not wholly surprising that he doesn’t  recognize you yet. But he is improving.”

“Has he been violent – fearful of other people?” Sherlock asked.

The nurse pursed her lips. “No,” she admitted. “He was quite pleasant to me this morning. Asked me my name about five times though, so his short term memory is clearly still affected. It’s likely post traumatic amnesia, and that does tend to pass away with time.” She looked him in the eyes, frankly. “John is better, but he’s not out of the woods. Be patient. Give him time.”

“How much time?” 

“I don’t know, Mr. Holmes. I wish I could tell you. Come back tomorrow.”

Sherlock stood and walked towards the exit. As he put his hand on the doorknob, he turned back. “What _is_ your name?” he asked.

“Janice Doyle,” she replied.

“Thank you. Janice Doyle,” he said. “I’ll remember.”


	12. Chapter 12

When Sherlock returned to the hospital the next day, he stopped at the nurses’ station and asked for Nurse Doyle.

“Not on duty today, I’m afraid,” said a blonde nurse (Irish – north Dublin, Sherlock thought automatically). “You’re Captain Watson’s friend, are you not? He’s been doing quite well today. Should be having his breakfast now. He does love his food, doesn’t he?” 

Sherlock smiled tightly. “Yes, he does.”

Sherlock hesitated outside the room, wondering whether to knock. He settled for a single, quiet rap with one knuckle before entering. 

John was sitting up in bed, finishing off a plate of food, what looked like eggs and toast. Sherlock noted the reduction in bandages on John’s shoulder, that his colour was better on his deeply tanned face. The green hospital gown made him look terribly young.  

John looked up at Sherlock with interest. “Hello,” he said.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock felt a grin breaking across his face, felt the tension through his shoulders ease.

John’s head cocked slightly to the side. “Are you the new doctor then?”

Sherlock stopped breathing. There was no recognition at all in John’s face. Sherlock felt like he was breaking apart, like bricks falling off a ruined building. All the tension and fear and uncertainty of the last few months, all the emotions he had controlled all his life crashed painfully in his brain. The buzzing sound rose up in his ears again.

Before he was aware of it, he had crossed the room and grabbed the front of John’s gown, pulling the loose cotton into balls in his fists. He heard his own voice as if from a distance: “You _know_ me, John, you do know, remember me, please, John, please remember…”

John immediately began to struggle against Sherlock’s grip, raining punches onto Sherlock’s arms; Sherlock felt nothing. He didn’t see John’s hand grasp the plate from his tray and smash it into the side of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock released John in shock and pain and surprise. 

“Get away from me, you lunatic,” John shouted, throwing everything in his reach at Sherlock. Sherlock raised his arm to protect himself from the teacup, the glass and bowl as they flew past him and crashed on the wall behind him. John reached for his water glass but misjudged the distance, falling out of the bed and landing on his right side, screaming in pain. 

The door to the room slammed open and a doctor Sherlock didn’t recognize strode in. He took in the scene with a single glance, turned and grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him out of the room. He slammed Sherlock up against the wall in the corridor. “Don’t move,” he growled, and walked back into John’s room, swinging the door shut. Two nurses followed him, one of whom was the Irish nurse who had spoken to Sherlock earlier. She glanced at him as she ran past; she looked frightened.

Sherlock could hear John’s threatening voice, and more glass breaking. Then the voice of the new doctor shouted, “Stand down, soldier!”

Sudden, absolute silence echoed out of the room. Sherlock felt frozen in place by it.

After a few minutes the doctor left the room and grabbed Sherlock’s jacket at the shoulder. “Mr. Holmes, I understand,” he said brusquely. “My office.”

Sherlock recovered himself enough by the time they reached the office to pull himself free from the doctor’s grip. He straightened his clothes, trying to rescue some small shreds of his dignity. 

“I am Major Gould, head neurologist, and I have taken charge of Captain Watson’s case. What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Mr. Holmes?” 

“I was told he was better,” Sherlock snapped.

“He was,” Gould said heatedly. “I’ve reviewed Captain Watson’s file. What I see is a soldier who is making an admirable recovery from multiple injuries, including serious head trauma, and whenever he gets a visit from a Mr. Sherlock Holmes he experiences a setback. Care to explain why that might be?”

Sherlock had rarely been speechless in his life, but was unable to answer.

“May I ask a question, Mr. Holmes?” There was no real politeness in the tone, and the hiss on the word _Mister_ was audible.  “What _precisely_ is the nature of your relationship with Captain Watson?”

Words crashed around in Sherlock’s head. Not family. More than friend. He had spent his entire life defining others and now could not define himself. “I…I don’t understand what…”

Gould slowly looked up and down Sherlock, his lip curling with undisguised revulsion. “ _I_ understand completely, Mr. Holmes. _You have no place here_. You have two minutes to get off of hospital property, and if you are seen here again I shall have you arrested. Do I make myself clear?”

Sherlock suddenly felt terribly calm, as if a door had been shut on a storm. He jerked a nod.

“Good,” Gould said. “Now get out. I must see to my patient.”

Sherlock buttoned his jacket. He realized he had tea blotted across his face and wiped it off. With careful, precise movements, he opened the door and walked out. 


	13. Chapter 13

On the train back to London, Sherlock sat rigidly in his seat, his fingertips touching below his chin. He sat still as stone for the entire journey, unaware of the curious looks of the other passengers. When the train pulled into Victoria Station, he disembarked swiftly and stepped into the first taxi at the platform.  

At the boarding house, he paid the driver and entered the building. When he reached his room he stood with his back against the closed door for a moment, surveying the tiny room and its contents.

All his pent up energy burst out and he darted across the room to a box. Sherlock pawed through the papers, digging right to the bottom. He grabbed a second box and rifled through it, then shoved it aside. The next box he simply picked up and turned upside down, dumping the contents on the already covered floor. His hands swam through the items on the floor, his teeth gritting so hard he was faintly aware of his jaw aching. 

He stood and began running his hands along the row of books on the bookshelf, picking up volumes, shaking the pages out and throwing them aside. One by one he emptied the shelves, adding to the growing pile of debris on the floor. When all that remained were the highest shelves beyond his reach, he stood on the chair and continued his frantic search. 

Finally his fingers reached behind a framed anatomical sketch and found a tiny plastic bag. His frenetic energy immediately stopped, and he looked at the bag almost reverently.

He stepped down from the chair and sat on it, staring at the bag. Carefully he opened it and poured the white powder into a small pile in the palm of his hand. His hand floated up and down slightly, judging its weight.

Would it be enough, he wondered. He was sure it was enough to take his mind above the chaos he was trapped in, but would it be enough to take him beyond that? He had to hope it was. His hand moved towards his mouth, his eyes closing.

He was startled by a loud banging at his door. His hand snapped shut around the powder.

“Let me in, Sherlock, I know you’re there!”

Sherlock stood and backed away from the door, his eyes darting around the room. The knocking continued, rising in volume and intensity. 

“Leave me alone!” shouted Sherlock.

A slight pause, then Sherlock heard the unmistakeable sound of a shoulder ramming up against the door. The cheap wood of the door easily splintered and gave way, and Lestrade stumbled into the room.

Sherlock realized he was holding his hand behind his back like a child withholding a toy. Lestrade slowly advanced on him, holding his hand out.

“Give it to me, Sherlock,” he said.

“You’ve been following me?” Sherlock said, outraged. “Mycroft never sank this low!” 

“Not following you, you idiot, looking for you!” Lestrade shouted. “You’ve been gone for nearly two weeks, haven’t answered any texts or calls, not even to tell me to piss off. I was about to start dragging the Thames when I got a call you’d been spotted at Victoria Station. Now, what the hell is going on?” 

“Leave me alone,” Sherlock spat.

With two steps, Lestrade closed the distance between them and grabbed Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock struggled but Lestrade outweighed him and quickly pulled the arm into view. Lestrade looked between Sherlock’s face and his still clenched fist, set his shoulder into Sherlock’s chest, pinning him to the wall, and pried his fingers open.

“Leave it,” Sherlock snarled. He tried to wiggle free but couldn’t. Lestrade looked down at the tiny pile of powder in Sherlock’s hand, now slightly dampened around the edges from the sweat of Sherlock’s hand. Without a word, Lestrade hauled Sherlock to the sink, turned on the tap and forced Sherlock’s hand under the water.

As Sherlock saw the last of the cocaine drain away, the small clumps of the drug melting under the force of the water, he stopped struggling and slumped against the counter. Lestrade released him and looked at him searchingly.

“I won’t tell Mycroft,” he said. “Pull something like that again, though, and I will.”

Sherlock pressed his wet hands to his eyes, water dripping down his face. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” he told Lestrade quietly.

“I believe I do,” Lestrade replied. “Come on, you can’t stay here in this pit.”

*

Lestrade kept him busy for weeks, hardly ever leaving him alone. He began “loaning” Sherlock to other detectives in the division for their cases, a phrase Sherlock resented deeply, but the cases occupied his mind for the most part. His heart wasn’t in the cases, and the solutions came slowly if at all, but his success rate was still better than most.

Lestrade never asked about Sherlock’s weeks of silence, never spoke of the incident in Sherlock’s room, and Sherlock tried to be grateful.

Sherlock immersed himself, drawn into the lure of his work. He found that the harder he worked, the easier it was to avoid thinking about John. A few times, early on, he found himself dwelling on flashes of memory: John laughing, playing darts; teasing Sherlock by making up deductions; the smell of his skin. These images would then move sharply into memories of John’s terrified screams, of his face as he threw dishes at Sherlock in the hospital. When that happened, Sherlock pushed the memory aside with effort and forced himself back to work. Soon he would only allow a flicker of memory and emotion before pushing them aside. Gradually it took less effort to shake off the memories when they rose up unbidden. 

He felt colder, harder inside. This hardness came out with belittling comments to anyone in sight. He began to relish the insults; pushing people further away helped him feel safer. The more he was alone, the more protected he felt. He slept less, and needed it less. He disciplined himself to need less food than ever. 

He accepted that this was the way he needed to function in order to continue. The alternative was no longer possible for him.


	14. Chapter 14

>   
> **  
> _1 missed call_  
> **
> 
> **_1 voice mail, today, 9:01am_ **
> 
> _“Mr. Holmes, this is Janice Doyle, the RN from Queen Elizabeth Army Hospital in Burmingham, we met when Captain John Watson was admitted last October. I am in London today and wish to speak with you. Please call me at your earliest convenience.”_

Sherlock recognized the crisp tones of the nurse even before she identified herself in the message. He noted that her message contained none of the verbal tics nearly everyone used when using electronic mediums – no “um”, no “ah”, no pauses. She had clearly rehearsed what she had to say. 

Sherlock hesitated a moment, then clicked “Call Back”.

*

Janice was staying with her sister in Earl’s Court, and Sherlock sat in the tiny sitting room holding a cup of tea. He was trying to remember the social niceties of being a guest in someone’s home; usually when he was in someone’s home the owner was dead. It had been months now since he had spoken to anyone about anything other than a case.

Janice set down her teacup neatly and faced Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes,” she said briskly, “this is not a social visit. I wish to discuss John.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. He felt a small tremor in his hand and was angry at himself; he placed the cup in the saucer and put it down on the side table.

“Let me be clear, Mr. Holmes. I could lose my job for discussing this with you.”

“Then why are you doing so?”

“Because you were done a great wrong, and John needs help.”

Sherlock was shocked into silence.

Janice sighed. “Major Gould is a brilliant neurologist, one of the best in the country. John’s recovery has been remarkable, and the credit must be laid at Major Gould’s feet. He is also an extremely narrow minded man. I was not on duty the day you left the hospital, and I am sorry to this day I was not. I didn’t hear what happened until much later, and recent events have pushed me to this action.”

“What events?” 

For the first time, Sherlock saw her rigid pose slump. “Do you recall the delay in contacting you when John was injured?”

Sherlock said nothing; that period of time was a blur in his memory. 

“After he had resumed active duty, John changed his emergency contact form. After his injury, with army bureaucracy being what it is, no form at all could be found for some time. They then found _both_ forms, and had to determine which was the most current. And then we called you.

“Last week we were preparing for John’s release from hospital and I was reviewing his file. The emergency form with your name on it was gone and the older form was in its place. I am convinced Major Gould removed your name.” Her mouth set into an angry, thin line. “You had every legal right to be there. John wanted you there; he went through a great deal of trouble to change his form to name you as his emergency contact. Major Gould had no right to remove you from John’s room or from the hospital. If I had been there, I would have told you so and done what I could to ensure you would stay.”

Sherlock realized what a personal risk the nurse was taking. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

She pressed her lips together tightly, controlling her anger. “Mr. Holmes, my brother and his partner James were together for nine years when James suffered an aneurysm while they were travelling in the United States. Robert was not allowed to be with him in the hospital because he wasn’t ‘family’, and James died alone. Robert was heartbroken, and…” She stopped and pressed her lips together again. 

Sherlock raised his hand to his face and rubbed his knuckles against his lips. They sat in silence for a moment.

“Ms Doyle,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Janice, please. How is John?”

She because businesslike again. “Physically the recovery has been remarkable. Shoulder and leg have both healed quite well. He insists on continuing to use a cane though, we can’t talk him out of it.” 

Sherlock knew what he needed to ask, and was afraid to. “And his memory?”

“It’s not long term amnesia, which is what you see in movies where patients can’t remember their name. That’s never been a problem. He remembers his family, his childhood, his training…” She smiled. “His medical training… One day in physiotherapy another patient collapsed with a seizure. John limped over and was administering aid, rapping out orders, before any of us could get to him. He’s a doctor, still.” 

Sherlock found himself smiling. Janice smiled back, but only briefly. “The official diagnosis is retrograde amnesia. That means…” 

“…only the memories surrounding the injury have been erased, deleted as it were,” Sherlock broke in.  “The brain also eliminates memories from before the injury as well. Car accident victims don’t remember getting in their car, or going to work that day. The length of the bracketing deleted memory often depends upon the severity of the injury.”

The nurse smiled tightly. “Yes, precisely. So far as we can tell his memory stops short about six months before the injury. He does not remember returning to the front, nor his leave.” She sat forward and looked at Sherlock with kindness. “How long did you and John know each other?”

Sherlock focused on his hands in his lap. “Three days. Three days before he returned to the front from his leave.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes.” Her voice came out as a sigh, and she smiled sadly at him. “It must have been a hell of a three days.”

Sherlock face flickered into a shallow smile, disappearing almost immediately. “Does he remember… from the hospital? When I was there?”

“His short term memory took a while to allow him to retain names, incidents. It took him a month before he stopped having to ask my name every morning. He has no memory of his behaviour, nor of anyone, for the first month he was in hospital. I tested his memory on that point myself.”

She sighed. “That’s why I didn’t make a formal complaint about Major Gould’s interference with John’s emergency form. Legally you had the right to be there. But I was… concerned about insisting upon a name that John does not remember. I was afraid that it would confuse and upset him. So I’ve come to you.” She looked up at him, and Sherlock saw her deep distress, and that she truly cared for John. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes.”

“Not… sorry. Don’t be sorry,” Sherlock choked. Suddenly he couldn’t make his voice or lungs work. All the control he had earned over the last few months was abandoning him. “I made a terrible mistake. That last day. He thought I was a doctor, he didn’t know me. If I had waited, just been more patient, perhaps….” He looked up at Janice. “I tried to force him to remember me. I couldn’t bear it. I frightened him. He was right to react as he did.”

“It was a natural reaction, both yours and his.” 

“Natural? You don’t understand. I don’t make mistakes. I don’t. Now…” He sealed his mouth around the words and clenched his teeth.

Janice looked him hard in the eye. “Mr. Holmes, listen to me. This is not over. You can still help him, and I want to help you to do so.

“John has been invalided out of the army. With his leg and shoulder injuries alone he would have been unqualified to return to the front, but the memory loss has sealed it. He has received a full pension and has been released from hospital. He is in London now. We were able to find him a bedsit but it’s in an ugly neighbourhood and the room is quite dismal, I visited him there. It’s all he can afford, and he can’t even really afford that. He’s being very stubborn and refuses to ask his family for help.” 

She leaned forward. “Of the greatest concern to me is that he reported his service revolver missing. I believe he still has it. I need not remind you that owning a handgun is illegal in Britain.” She stared at Sherlock until she saw he understood the implications of what she was saying – he understood greater than she knew. 

Janice leaned forward and looked into Sherlock’s face. “Would you be willing to help John now?”

Sherlock looked up at her. “How? He doesn’t know me. From before or from the hospital. I’m nothing, nobody, to him now.” 

“I don’t know what your personal situation is, Mr. Holmes, but I thought, perhaps, you could assist him.  Financially, that is, without him knowing.”

Sherlock sat slumped in the chair, his fingertips pressing into the corners of his eyes. “I don’t see how I ….oh!” Sherlock sat up as though startled. “OH!” 

“Mr. Holmes?” Janice asked in confusion.

Sherlock felt his brain accelerating like an engine. His despair vanished. “Shut up for a moment. I’m thinking.”


	15. Chapter 15

A week later, Sherlock stood in the morgue at St. Bart’s, looking down at the table in front of him. He somewhat resented the distraction on today of all days, but the sample was too good to turn down. He could conduct his experiment and get back to the lab in plenty of time.

He was most worried about Stamford’s role. Sherlock had grilled him with information about John, making sure he had all the information that a schoolmate from long ago might know. He just had to hope that Stamford didn’t slip up. It was quite possible, of course, that Stamford was too stupid to mess things up too badly, he didn’t know Sherlock very well and had no idea of his true motivations. It was an acceptable risk, Sherlock had decided.

He remembered what Janice had told him when he had outlined his plan to her. At first she had protested that it was unethical, and he had snapped, “Ethics be damned.” She had looked him square in the eyes, without wavering. 

“You realize what this means for you, Mr. Holmes? You are a stranger to John. You would have to re-evaluate your entire relationship with him, live as though you had never met him before. Even if this works it means acting a part around him _all the time_ – a lifetime of self-control. You will _never_ be able to approach him as you did before.”

She paused to allow that thought to sink in. “Do you think if you do this his memory will return, that he’ll remember you? You knew him for only three days of the six months or more that are permanently erased from John’s memories. Do you think that you could someday resume the relationship as if nothing had happened? It’s extremely unlikely, Mr. Holmes. That would be a foolish and sentimental wish.” 

Sherlock smiled, just a slight twitch of his cheek. Not sentimental, no. But when he evaluated his life before and after John, he had realized that there was no other choice. He would take what he could get.

He suddenly felt terribly nervous. There was always the possibility, remote as was, that John would recognize Sherlock, either from the hospital, or from before. Sherlock had arranged for Janice to be standing by near the lab, and if John reacted violently Sherlock would quickly leave and signal her; she would then try to defuse the situation. Sherlock had developed his own plan for himself should that happen.

He did not allow himself to consider the latter possibility. 

All the emotions, the uncertainty, and fear of the last few months began to build inside him again. He allowed the anger to well up and made an inventory. He hated Lestrade’s interference. He hated his brother’s smug superiority and the wedding ring on his left hand. He hated Gould and the sneer he had had on his face. He hated hospitals and IV tubes. He hated the war for what it had done to John.

He flexed the riding crop between his hands and took all his anger out on the corpse on the table.

*

 John walked through Postman’s Park, leaning heavily on his cane. He deeply resented his physiotherapist’s ‘prescription’ of a daily walk, and he really resented her unrelenting quizzes about it. “And how far did you walk today, John? And yesterday?” 

The leg still hurt whenever he put weight on it but no one believed him. He hated the cane and the stares that it earned, the squeak it made when he leaned on it, hated it when women offered him their seats on the Tube.  At the same time he knew he needed the cane, and it was better to sit than try to balance himself on the moving subway.

The park was near St. Bart’s Hospital, and was filled with businessmen and nurses in their scrubs, hastily eating their lunch and enjoying the early signs of spring, for a few minutes at least. John considered buying a pork pie from a street vendor for his lunch, but after a mental tally of the money in his pocket he decided against it. He had some tinned soup at the bedsit.

Maybe he would cut his walk short and go to the Museum of London; it was right around the corner, it was free, and it would keep him away from his room for a little while longer. 

He had just passed the circle at the centre of the park when he heard a voice: “John? John Watson?”

He turned and saw a chubby man walking towards him with a smile and his hand out. “Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.”

John was becoming accustomed to the gaps in his memory; while it was frustrating he had learned to hide it under a veneer of English politeness. “Yes, yes, hello,” he said with as friendly a tone as he could muster, shaking hands with the man. God, he was becoming a good actor.

*

Sherlock could hear footsteps coming down the hallway towards the lab. Two sets: one rolling gait that was Stamford’s; the other with a hitch and an accompanying metal squeak. This meant that Stamford had accomplished his part of the plan, and that John was here. The rest was up to Sherlock.

Sherlock schooled himself into calmness and focussed on the petri dish in front of him. The next few minutes would determine the success or failure of the enterprise.

He heard the door swing open and John mutter, “Bit different from my day,” and risked a quick glance. It took all his self-discipline to keep a neutral expression when he saw John. God, he looked tired, like an old man. The mischievousness that Sherlock remembered best about John was masked by a sad, empty face. And the cane – Sherlock was immediately irritated and angered by it. Sherlock would have to get rid of it soon, and find out how deeply John’s spirit had been buried. He owed at least that to John.

He regained control of his emotions again, and said smoothly, “Mike, can I borrow your phone?” Sherlock’s phone worked perfectly, of course, and he knew Mike wasn’t carrying his – he wanted to see how John reacted.

“Here, you can use mine,” John said.

With John’s words, Sherlock’s inner turmoil faded away. He remembered John offering his phone in the alleyway on the night they met, when John had offered help to a stranger who didn’t know how to accept it. John’s offer now proved two things to Sherlock: that his personality, his kindness and generosity, was intact, though buried; and that John truly did not remember him. It was a chance to start over. “Thank you,” he said.

He stood and walked towards John, buttoning his jacket calmly. He looked John in the eyes, and felt mastery over himself again. Just having John near made him… better. It felt _right_.

He accepted the phone from John and allowed himself a small smile.

A lifetime of playing a role. Sherlock was willing. It was worth it.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
